I joined the tail of the senior line which had formed next to the gate. Erik waited until everyone had stopped fidgeting and Utter silence prevailed.
Whenever I look back on my childhood, my principal memory is of how regimented commune life was. In primary dorm we were once required to write an essay on growing up in Silver Spring, and I still recall the text which I produced: “Babies are brought from the city,” I wrote, “and grown in the nursery until they are five. Then they go to primary dorm until they are eleven. Then they go to junior dorm until they are sixteen and have majority. They stay in senior dorm until they are twenty and made into adults.”
I think I anticipated my discontent in that succinct and unconsciously damning paragraph. The dorm system, with its wardens specially trained to meet the needs of the age-group of which they have charge, was originally established to ensure a speedy growth in population following the initial colonization of Gaia. It is not a harsh system, but, being tailored to the needs of the community at large, it is not conducive to individual growth. Card and Erik regularly had charge of eighty to ninety children, and Silver Spring is one of the smaller communes in the High Valleys. In Helixport, smaller units of around thirty children are favoured, and greater freedom of expression is encouraged. In defence of the communes, though, it must be said that the valley settlements are relatively impoverished compared with the city, and a sturdy childhood discipline is essential to prevent a wholescale migration to the coast.
But apart from my twice-seasonal sorties to the city, at fifteen, commune life was all I knew, and I was quite content to bear the drudgery of the fields in exchange for the camaraderie and sense of belonging which the dorm system provides. It was only on occasions that I resented what seemed to me to be an overzealous insistence on punctilio.
“I hope you are all rested after your holiday,” Erik said at last. “Rested and refreshed.” He rubbed his pudgy hands together, “But relaxation is like sleep. If we have too much, we want more, and we become slothful.”
“If we eat too much, we become fat,” Meryl, who was standing in front of me, murmured.
“So let us tackle our tasks with renewed vigour in this second half of Summer,” Erik was saying. “Today we begin harvesting the butterfruit crop.” He smiled broadly, as if this was some pronouncement which should cause us great delight.
“Hooray,” said someone, with a studied lack of enthusiasm.
Erik took a notebook from the breast-pocket of his shirt and proceeded to give us our field allocations. Annia, Jax and I had been assigned one of the smaller plantations on the slopes below the Provisions Centre (the one concession which the commune planners allowed their youth was the freedom to work with one’s friends). We departed, Jax leading the way down the mountainside, treading a sinuous path through the denuded, thorn-strewn terraces of the roseplum briars, dun-brown and sere in the sunlight.
For the next six hours we laboured in the ever-increasing heat, plucking the golden fruit from their stalks and dropping them delicately into bamboo baskets until our backs ached with a leaden, unlocalized pain and our hands were sticky with juice. The ripe fruit was extremely tender and would easily rupture under finger pressure; no matter how careful we were, we invariably ended up with at least half a basket of spoiled fruit, most of which was used for fodder.
Jax moved with a seemingly inexhaustible energy along the rows of plants, stripping them of their fruit with such adroitness that he filled two baskets to every one of mine. Jax possessed the happy capacity to adapt to any physical task, however odious, with a good humour and a desire to excel. Annia worked more slowly—she disliked fruit-picking as much as I did—but she was quietly efficient and uncomplaining. I found it impossible to concentrate my full attention on my work. Sometimes my thoughts would wander so that I would imagine myself back in Helixport, ploughing through the cool waters of the Dome Baths; sometimes I would watch the bees gathering at the spoils baskets, attracted by the sweet, oleaginous aroma of the bruised fruit; sometimes I would engage Annia and Jax in feckless conversation as a pretext to temporarily stop work; sometimes I would simply sit beneath the glossy bronze-green foliage, making no attempt to disguise my boredom and my distaste for fruit-picking.
I always followed the progress of Capella across the skies and became adept at judging when she was nearing zenith from the oblateness of the twin shadow of my outstretched arm. Zenith meant release from the fields, a retreat to the coolness of the dining-room. A bell would ring, at first distantly, hardly perceived, then drawing closer as Erik or Caril moved through the fields summoning everyone to midmeal. The morning bell, that rude interrupter of dreams, was a vexation, but the zenith bell was always music to my ears.
That morning Erik approached from the upper slopes. Since we were working close to the stream we were among the last to be summoned, and I had been anticipating the bell for over ten minutes before I actually heard it. Hurriedly we gathered our baskets together and awaited his arrival. I had filled only sis baskets compared with Annia’s ten and Jax’s thirteen—they constantly outdid me in their labours—but by the time Erik had reached us, Jax had transferred two of his baskets to me so that the evidence of my sloth was not so blatant.
Although he walked at a moderate pace, Erik was red-faced and breathless when he arrived. He surveyed our baskets and made an entry in his notebook. He indicated that we could leave, but as we collected our towels and water-bottles, he said to me: “Not you, David. I want to speak with you.”
Annia and Jax departed, casting curious, knowing glances at me. Erik upturned two empty baskets and invited me to sit down. He put the bell between his legs, unconsciously creating the effect of an artificial phallus.
“How did you get that?” he asked, indicating my bruised eye.
“Just an accident,” I said.
He frowned, but evidently decided not to press the matter.
“It is almost five seasons since you entered junior dorm,” he said, dabbing at his sweat-filmed brow with a striped rag cut from an old pillowcase. “As you may know, when we receive a new nursery intake from the incubators in Helixport, the authorities provide us with a list of conception dates. It is commune policy to conduct majority ceremonies on the very day an individual reaches his or her sixteenth season.”
I nodded; already, in the first six months of Summer, half of our season-mates had left for senior dorm, and Annia, Jax and I had been on tenterhooks throughout sixth month, afraid that one of us would be called away to majority before our final visit to the city. Luck had been with us.
Erik took a small white plastic card from the buttoned waist-pocket of his shirt and passed it to me:
here with notification that on
8.7. summer 29
a majority ceremony on behalf of
david 52211419 silver spring commune
will be held in the central council hall at 0230 hours
“The majority ceremony represents formal recognition that one has passed beyond childhood,” Erik was saying. “You must be prepared from now on to shed the frivolities of youth and begin to accept the responsibilities of maturity. It is a time of transition, perhaps the most important time of your life.”
Erik said the words by rote; it was obviously his standard speech. He folded the rag into quarters and slipped it into his breast pocket.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied, though in truth my only feeling was that of satisfied curiosity: I now knew my precise date of conception.
“Have you decided on your choice of vocation for the future?”
“I didn’t think we were allowed a choice.”
“It is true that the elders reserve final judgement, but part of the purpose of the ceremony is to ascertain for what duties one might best be fitted. If you have a preference for something, they will try to accommodate you.”
This hardly seemed a concession; the choices were limited. Although accession to senior dorm generally
meant a release from fruit-picking, the duties were still primarily manual: sorting and packing fruit; planting seedlings; extending areas of Cultivation, and so on. Nothing of this nature appealed to me.
“Most youths of your age have already discovered their interests,” Erik said. “Surely you must have some ambition?”
I stared hard at the ground, pretending to think.
“No,” I said finally. “I don’t know what I want to do.”
“Between now and the day of your ceremony I suggest you give the matter some serious consideration. It is far better to be assigned to some task which you find only moderately interesting than something which you actively dislike.”
Annia and Jax both, congratulated me on my forthcoming ceremony, but there was a hint of sadness in their reactions which was echoed in my own feelings. Although there was no reason why we should not remain close friends when I left for senior dorm (after all, they would be joining me there before the end of the season), we ail sensed that we had reached a watershed in our relationship, that somehow things would never be the same again. We had become close friends in our first season at junior dorm, and the dorm itself was central to us. By leaving it, we risked destroying the nexus, the foundation on which our friendship rested. At the time, of course, none of us was capable of understanding or articulating these feelings, but they manifested themselves as a vague apprehension nonetheless.
The next six days passed slowly. I busied myself in the fields, doubling my usual quota in a burst of activity designed to stave off thought. Although I knew that the majority ceremony was little more than a formality to mark one’s ascent from childhood to adolescence, a prelude to the attainment of full adulthood at twenty, 1 nonetheless grew increasingly nervous as the appointed time drew near. The physical activity of the fields was a blessing at this time, and I volunteered for extra field duty in the evenings—much to the surprise of Caril and Erik. Morning and afternoon work was compulsory and unpaid, but evening harvesting carried the lure of a one check per hour payment; Annia, Jax and I had subsidized our visits to the city in this way.
In the classroom over zenith I was restless and unable to concentrate on my lessons. The dim, humid atmosphere and the droning voices of our tutors was oppressive. In the past I had excelled at schoolwork, adept at mathematics and abstract theory, intrigued by the principles underlying plant hybridization and soil management, keen to learn all I could of our history on Gaia, Jax, averse to all things academic, often relied on my help to complete the written assignments which were periodically given; in this way I repaid the debt I owed him for his help in the fields. But the prospect of the ceremony now loomed before me, obliterating all my attempts at concentration. The truth was that I did not want to leave junior dorm.
I completed the construction of my telescope two days after our return from Helixport and was given permission to mount it on the roof of the dorm. One afternoon during zenith I focused on Lesser Capella, and, using a rectangle of white plastic to display the image, observed the transit of one of the minor suns across its face, a black spot embedded in a brilliant golden sphere. After sunset, Annia and Jax joined me on the roof and we surveyed the planetary bodies of our solar system: Argus, our nearest neighbour, shrouded in dense, bluish-white clouds; Tyche, the seventh planet of our system, a mottled, olive-brown globe; Hecate, the distant gas-giant, a huge grey-green world, hostile and forbidding. Jax had little interest in astronomy, but Annia was fascinated by the amount of detail which was visible through the crude instrument, blurred and tinged with spectral hues though the images were. The next day I borrowed the Star Atlas from the library and that night I focused on Sol, our ancestral sun, the central jewel in the constellation of The Crown. It was an unremarkable star, a flickering gold-white point of light somewhat dimmer than its neighbours.
At last the day of the ceremony arrived. I watched my dorm-mates leave for the fields and for once I longed to accompany them. Caril was with me and she seemed to sense my disquiet. She kissed me lightly on the forehead and said; “It will soon be time. We must prepare.”
I took a long bath and put on a clean shirt and shorts. I combed my hair, brushed my teeth and drew patterns in the misted mirror with my finger until Caril called me. She had discarded her shirt and pants for a long white robe, belted at the waist. She looked radiant and serene, like a figure from a dream. Then, as if to dispel this impression, she burped loudly and winked at me. I grinned and followed her out into the bright morning sunlight.
We crossed the arched stone footbridge and began to climb the asphalt pathway which wound up the northern face of the valley to the white stuccoed council building which stood aloof and imposing on the upper slopes. As we climbed I looked backwards down the hillside to where my dorm-mates were toiling in the fields, crouched white figures amidst the foliage. Suddenly I was glad that 1 was ascending the mountain rather than grubbing in the dusty earth.
“Come,” Card called. She was beginning to outpace me and I quickened my stride.
My body was prickly with heat by the time we reached the hail, but the vestibule was cool and I lay back against the stone walls and closed my eyes. I felt peculiarly composed, even eager for the ceremony to begin.
I had expected some delay, but minutes after we arrived, Philip, the elders’ secretary, emerged and informed us that we should enter.
The austerity of the hall surprised me. It was a simple stone chamber, unadorned except for the commune symbol, the letter S embellished in silver on the chimney flue. The sunlight, entering through the chamfered windows, laid a series of bright rectangles along the concrete floor. The elders—there were over twenty present—sat at a long mustard-coloured table in front of the empty fireplace, all dressed in white robes, all looking curiously alike, their faces dark and sun-seamed. Facing them was a single, empty chair. I had always supposed that the council hall would reek of grandeur and ancientness, whereas it seemed empty and impersonal, a place where people meet but do not linger.
Caril led me forward and sat me down on the chair. She stood behind me and rested her hands on my shoulders.
The elder Robert, seated at the centre of the table, addressed me:
“You are David 52211419?”
I nodded, puzzled; Robert knew me well.
“Please reply.”
“Yes. I am David.”
“Caril?”
“I confirm,” Caril said.
“You are aware of the purpose of this ceremony?” Robert asked.
“Yes.”
“You have now reached the age of majority, sixteen seasons. To achieve majority is to begin the transition from youth to adulthood. From now on, no longer wall your deeds and misdeeds be judged as would a child’s; no longer will you be cosseted by your wardens. You will be expected to behave as a responsible individual whose main objective is to carve out a permanent and fitting role in society. Therefore, much of this ceremony will take the form of an evaluation of your potential and a consideration of how your talents may best be employed for the benefit of the community at large. Is this clear to you?”
“Yes.” Robert had merely reiterated more solemnly what Erik had told me.
“Very well.” He paused to scratch the back of his neck, then said: “Tell me what you know of the economic basis of our commune.”
Thus began a series of questions which were designed to test my knowledge of all aspects of commune life. Practically all the elders posed at least one question. Arthor was concerned with agronomics and the search for suitable hybrids which would improve soil fertility by fixing atmospheric nitrogen; Guy concentrated his questions on the financial aspects of trade between the communes and the city; Leah was particularly interested in the historical factors which had determined the present social order; Rila went even further back, asking me what I knew of Earth. I answered all their questions as well as my memory allowed but it was difficult to judge whether my responses were satisfactory, for the elders would merely nod at the end of ea
ch and jot down notes on the pads before them. Only Pamila, sitting stooped and wizened to my far left, inquired as to how I felt about commune life. I replied that I could find no cause for complaint. There were no further questions.
Robert studied some papers on the table in front of him.
“I have here your manual and academic records,” he said. “Your performance in the fields is not good. Your daily quotas have been well below average—” he peered at me over the top of the sheet “—despite surreptitious help from your friends. Do you deny this?”
I shook my head; everyone knew that the wardens deliberately overlooked the basket-swapping designed to equalize quotas, but they were obviously aware of the capacity of each worker.
“Do you have any explanations?” Robert asked.
“No.”
“Then you accept that your labours have been below standard?”
“Yes.”
He seemed surprised by my admission. Well, I thought, it was true. I did not accomplish as much in the fields as my dorm-mates.
“Do you have no regrets about this?” Rila asked.
“I am sorry that I could not fulfil quotas,” I told her. “But it was not through laziness that I failed.”
“Then why?”
“I don’t know. I dream a lot in the fields.”
“Dream?” said Robert. “Of what?”
“Just daydreams. When it gets very hot, I dream of cool water and the night. I get bored in the fields.”
To my surprise, Robert did not treat this admission with the distaste I had expected.
“It may be that you are simply not suited to manual duties,” he said. He referred again to the papers before him. “Were you aware that your record at tutorials was also being monitored?”
“No,” I replied, though this was not strictly true. Periodically we were given written tests, and while the results were never released, I had often suspected that they were used as an indicator of academic progress.
“Then I can inform you that you have attained consistently high grades in all aspects of your classwork.”
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